


To See the Face of God

by TheTyger



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angels, Angst, Crowley is too good, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Historical, Les Mis AU, M/M, Sadness, canon character death, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2013-09-08
Packaged: 2017-12-26 00:43:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/959546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTyger/pseuds/TheTyger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a long while, they simply watched. They agreed to this, just to bear witness, for once just not to mess people about.</p><p>So they watched. They watched over Valjean, over Fantine, over Jalvert, Cosette, Marius, Eponine, Gavroche, Enjolras, Grantaire, over the Inn. They saw the hurting, the hunger, the heartbreak.</p><p>Mostly they drowned themselves in bottles of wine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To See the Face of God

_"There's a grief that can't be spoken,_

_There's a pain goes on and on."_

_\- Empty Chairs At Empty Tables, Les Misérables_

* * *

 

France was desolate, desperate.

There was little room for hope, for love, but somehow the villagers seemed to find both. Aziraphale could see it, in the children's dirt-streaked faces, the mothers' welcoming arms, the fathers' tired eyes. It was always brief, infrequent, but he saw.

For Crowley, it was like a free-for-all, practically a playground. The Inn was his masterpiece of the century. Not the suffering, the hunger, that wasn't quite his scene. He'd never really been one for the suffering. Annoyance, frustration, sure. But not suffering. Not like _this_.

Aziraphale walked through the streets as if in a trance. The poverty here, the sheer _desperation_ , was overwhelming, even for an angel. Especially for an angel.

Aziraphale's heart gave a painful squeeze when he noticed a little girl, watching him nervously from a doorway. He beckoned her over. "What's your name, my dear?"

The girl stared at him with wide, bright eyes. "C- Cosette. I'm Cosette."

The angel nodded and handed her a small loaf of bread. "Here, take this. God bless you, Cosette."

He watched the little girl scamper away, blonde hair flying behind her like a battle-frayed flag.

"You can't help them all, you know," a voice hissed in his ear. Aziraphale turned, noticing the demon standing at his side. He glared. "Is this your work then?" he asked coldly, gesturing broadly to the city.

"No," Crowley recoiled, "Not really my style, is it? Don't be fooled, angel. They do this all on their own."

Aziraphale deflated visibly. There was silence for a moment.

"Did you hear...they reckon they've caught Jean Valjean?"

Crowley frowned thoughtfully. "I remember him. Stole some bread, didn't he?"

"To feed his nephew," Aziraphale replied, "The injustice is just..."

Crowley snorted bitterly. "Ineffable?"

Stormy grey-blue eyes met serpentine gold. "...No."

Crowley watched the angel disappear deeper into the crumbling streets.

* * *

 

For a long while, they simply watched. They agreed to this, just to bear witness, for once just not to mess people about.

So they watched. They watched over Valjean, over Fantine, over Javert, Cosette, Marius, Eponine, Gavroche, Enjolras, Grantaire, over the Inn. They saw the hurting, the hunger, the heartbreak.

Mostly they drowned themselves in bottles of wine.

* * *

 

Aziraphale was there, invisible to the brave men crouching behind the barricade.

He saw Eponine die, staring into the eyes of the man she loved. He gathered her soul to himself, cradling it close as Marius did her body, and spread his wings, and carried her to Heaven.

When there was a brief respite, the men huddled together, speaking quietly of what they'd left behind, giving each other hope. Aziraphale returned from Above and sat down heavily, barely reacting to the demon slipping through the rubble to sit beside him.

Eventually, the angel spoke. "This barricade, these poor boys...they're doomed. And so are we if we stay here. You know that."

"Yeah... I know. Our deaths mean nothing, angel. We'll just come back."

"Yes. But they won't."

"No," Crowley sighed, "...here." He handed the angel a bottle of wine. "Drink with me."

Aziraphale met Crowley's eyes briefly, fighting back tears, before dropping his gaze to the bottle. He raised it and looked up at the men. "Here's to them."

"Here's to you," Crowley replied.

* * *

 

They caught a glimpse of Gabriel lifting the little boy into his arms. The Archangel smiled sadly and raised a hand in greeting, golden wings drooping in exhaustion; perfectly willing to overlook the demon leaning heavily on the angel, one hand still on the bottle between them. Aziraphale did his best to smile back.

When the fighting started again, the demon was nowhere to be found.

* * *

 

The ringing and horrible white light slowly faded from his eyes and ears. Aziraphale tore his gaze away from the carnage and to the old man hunched protectively over Marius' too-still body. Valjean lifted his head, and, through both their tears, Aziraphale could have sworn the man could see him.

The moment passed, and Aziraphale turned back to the casualties, among his brothers and sisters.

The angels were busy that night.

* * *

 

In the end, after everything had finally gone to...to Somewhere, Crowley found the angel on the roof of one of the taller buildings. He approached cautiously. "...Aziraphale?"

The angel's glazed eyes stayed fixed on the skyline. "To love another person is to see the face of God," he whispered.

Crowley said nothing, and stepped forward to thread their fingers together.

"We'll be okay, angel," he murmured eventually. "Just one day more."

And, standing there, holding each other's hands tightly, they could just hear the song floating up from the battlefield:

_"Do you hear the people sing, Lost in the valley of the night? It is the music of a people who are climbing to the light! For the wretched of the earth, There is a flame that never dies; Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise!"_

It was faint, barely able to be heard from above, even as the voices grew in strength.

But it was there, sure enough.


End file.
